Yolisa’s new blog: The one about the baseball player who tried to score a home run

Seeing as my life is your entertainment, I have yet another tale from the dating trenches…

Quick recap of my current situation for context: I’m still dating my American crush and he continues to be delightful. Have added an Island Bae to the mix because he is reliable and is a great tennis coach.

Then there is the charming Southern gentleman who disappears for weeks at a time but is always fun whenever he pops up.

So far these three keep me occupied between work and polishing my plans for world domination.

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I’m not actively looking to date anyone else, unless their name is Idris Elba.

So there I was minding my own business, when a message popped into my Instagram Direct message box from this dude. In the digital age relationships starting from someone sliding into the DM is a pretty common phenomenon but so far it’s never happened to me.

This all changed when Miguel slid into my messages late in April with a casual hello

Straight off the bat he asked if I had a boyfriend and I said no because technically it’s true. He then asked if I speak Spanish: shamefully I’m still learning the language so that was a no. He admitted that he didn’t speak much English which I was quite okay with. Especially since his badly typed messages had already given that fact away.

After establishing that I was single, the professional baseball player invited me to his hotel

Had to say a hard ‘no’ since I was at that Marriott for brunch a few months before and nothing then made it worth a return trip.

He asked me out for dinner on Saturday which I accepted. I asked about the venue and he said he didn’t know as he was from out of town. Fair play. On Thursday I suggested an upmarket steak house close to his hotel and he agreed. So far, all good.

The first curve-ball came when he contacted me the day before asking if I wanted to bring a friend to the date

The first curve-ball came when he contacted me the day before asking if I wanted to bring a friend to the date. Another hard ‘no’.

Then on Friday he sent a message claiming that he couldn’t go to the restaurant because the people he worked for didn’t pay him a lot and they hadn’t paid him this week.

As someone who made the mistake of paying for way too many dates in my youth, I felt this was a strike out on his part.

I informed the budding athlete that I was happy to take a rain check until his money situation was sorted. To which he expressed disappointment at not being able to see me.

I was genuinely puzzled at this point: he asked me out, I accepted, he claimed financial constraint and I let him off the hook. Seems pretty straightforward, no?

Instead of accepting the swing and miss he still claimed he wanted to see me. So I told him to pick an alternate venue. He promised to do that on Saturday morning.

The morning passed with me at the tender mercy of the hairdresser attaching a million braids to my head. After that was done I went for a glorious mimosa-soaked brunch. No word from Don DiMaggio.

After I was home and luxuriating in front of the TV I got a text inviting me to a tacky Mexican themed restaurant at the last minute. Yet another ‘no’.

He then suggested we skip dinner and meet at the hotel. And here I thought players walked off after three strikes

This story isn’t about weak players who strike out when they should be winning: its about progress.

Because even as recently as five years ago I would have been that stupid woman who paid to get her hair done, slapped on expensive make-up, paid for my own Uber and then forked out even more of my own money to pay for dinner with a man who clearly did not deserve my time.

That was old me. New me flicks my braids and makes liberal use of the block button. because that’s the only game we are playing with broke athletes.